


the window to the soul, or something like that

by thespideyboy



Series: Good Omens!!! [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley doesn't need a hug, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Post-Good Omens, Praise, affectionate aziraphale, but aziraphale gives him one anyways
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 05:15:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19311364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thespideyboy/pseuds/thespideyboy
Summary: Aziraphale continues, staring so intently at Crowley’s molten gold eyes that, out of context, one would think he’d just been shown the face of God, or the secrets of the universe. “And they remind me of the sunset you’d taken me to see in Greece, on the coast of-”“Santorini,” Crowley finishes with a nod. The wicked curl of his upper lip doesn’t quite resolve, not really, but,  as though in piteous consolation, his shoulders straighten incrementally, barely enough to be evident. He leans into Aziraphale’s touch, gravitates towards the indescribable warmth like a priest to a sin. “Right off the coast of Santorini. You were-” He breaks off, mouth curving into an involuntary grin, “You were wearing the most dastardly toga, did nothing for your figure.”//or, a love letter to crowley's eyes.





	the window to the soul, or something like that

“You know,” Aziraphale begins, drawing his index finger along the arm of the couch. The leather gives little leeway beneath the pressure- it’s a sign that the material hasn’t seen much usage, purchased and promptly forgotten in the corner of the den. If it were anyone else’s furniture, of course, such would be the case. “There’s no need to keep your eyes hidden. Not- Not when it’s just me.”

Which is to say, in this case, it is very much _ not the case. _ Because this particular state occupied by the leather-bound loveseat isn’t the product of chronic neglect, or of decorum-based condemnation, but the careful result of proper maintenance. Three decades worth, if Aziraphale has his numbers aligned correctly.(He does, of course. He’s an angel, and he’s rather gifted in mathematics, having been educated by the pioneers of the subject. It’s not often useful, not when he can simply  _ miracle  _ answers into existence, but it’s the principle of the thing that matters,  _ miracles  _ be damned.)

Crowley, who stands a serpent’s length away, responds with a scoff. As though it’s merely an afterthought, he slouches forward, bares his teeth. “I’m not- Where’d’ya get an idea like that?”

Not dissimilar to a mother preparing to reprimand her child, Aziraphale cocks his head, his mouth opening wordlessly. It closes, seals with a meager press of his lips as he takes a moment to choose an appropriate course of action, before it opens again. “Well, Crowley, I’ve known you for- My, six thousand years, now? Seems you’ve always a pair on, here and there, and-”

“I didn’t wear ‘em in the BC’s,” Crowley returns, raising a dark eyebrow, “And- and no, I didn’t- I didn’t have anything until-”

“Until that Italian fellow created them, if I recall correctly. Twelve ‘o-seven? Twelve seventeen? I can’t remember the  _ exact  _ date, my apologies, but-”

“But nothing, I don’t want to hear any-”

“Salvino D’Armanti, I believe his name was, and I can’t recall a moment since that you-”

“Save it, Angel.” With a quick gesture, one that’s reminiscent of a key turning in its prospective lock, Crowley abolishes his glasses. They disappear in a hiss of smoke, a slight imprint left on the bridge of the demon’s nose the only indication that they had ever existed in the first place. Needle-sharp pupils bore into Aziraphale, linger on the crease in his brow before migrating over in avoidance. “Better?”

“That isn’t what I-”

“You don’t know what you’re goin’ on about. Bullocks. The whole lot’a it.” The statement is certain, ebbing with finality and spoken with a tongue that’s pointed like a Bowie knife. Crowley has made it clear that the conversation is over. There is nothing left to be said. “Thought we were gonna, I don’t know,  _ binge  _ something tonight? S’at what they’re callin’ it now? It’s all brain-rot, either way.”

Aziraphale, though, is someone who rewards himself on his perceptive abilities, and would never be one to miss the modest quirk in the left corner of Crowley’s mouth- it’s obvious to him, who’s known this being over the course of a long and humble existence, and though it’s something that, had any other person been present, would have been ignored, or missed, Aziraphale sees it as clear as day, like a charcoal cloud passing over a gleaming sunrise. He removes his finger from the leather of the couch and stands. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says softly, floats over to where the other stands guard. “It’s- deary, it’s alright.” 

The den is large, though scarce in furniture like the rest of Crowley’s flat, but with the both of them confined to the same unforgiving corner, hard boots on hardwood, the room feels greater- oppressive, in a way. They’re celestial beings, conceptually  _ more  _ than what the physical world is capable of comprehending, and yet, standing so close, crowded in the corner of the limited London flat, Crowley can’t help but feel diminutive and pathetic, like a puny ant threatened by the oncoming berth of a mud-soaked wellington. 

A scowl spreads across his face like beach towel. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He makes to slither around the angel, because he’s an expert when it comes to slithering, and sauntering, and, of course,  _ crawling,  _ but, because the damn  _ ineffable plan  _ doesn’t  _ ever  _ seem to be on his side, his decided course is all but abandoned at the sensation of a warm hand falling to his chest. Delicate fingers curl into the hem of his jacket, hold steady even as Crowley jolts backwards. 

“I, for one, quite enjoy your eyes.” Aziraphale states. “They remind me of the apricots we used to eat in Rome together.” 

Crowley, who had previously been staring down at the pointed toes of his dubiously-sourced snakeskin boots, finds himself tempted to meet the intense gaze of the other. He’s bitter about it, sure, because  _ he’s  _ the temptress,  _ not Aziraphale,  _ but there’s no true resentment behind the grimace twisting his cheeks. 

Aziraphale continues, staring so intently at Crowley’s molten gold eyes that, out of context, one would think he’d just been shown the face of God, or the secrets of the universe. “And they remind me of the sunset you’d taken me to see in Greece, on the coast of-” 

“Santorini,” Crowley finishes with a nod. The wicked curl of his upper lip doesn’t quite resolve, not really, but,  as though in piteous consolation, his shoulders straighten incrementally,  _ barely  _ enough to be evident. He leans into Aziraphale’s touch, gravitates towards the indescribable warmth like a priest to a sin. “Right off the coast of Santorini. You were-” He breaks off, mouth curving into an involuntary grin, “You were wearing the most  _ dastardly  _ toga, did  _ nothing  _ for your figure.”

Aziraphale breaks into a smile, teeth white and straight and gleaming, even though it should have been impossible between the black walls of the dimly lit flat, like polished ivory before a burning star, or an open flame. “I thought I looked  _ charming! _ ”

“You always look charming, Angel.” Crowley snakes his hand up along Aziraphale’s body, flicks the top button of his jacket without looking up. “Doesn’t mean you’ve always got the most sensible  _ fashion sense,  _ but that’s alright, we can’t all be as  _ modern  _ as  _ yours truly.” _

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.” Aziraphale glows, the rounds of his cheeks colouring, “Where was I? Santorino, yes- You’d miracled the entire beach crowd away, sent them off to go build a-”

“A coliseum, I think. Or. No. Maybe I sent ‘em to, I don’t know. Something with columns, kept ‘em busy either way.”

“Yes! That’s it, yes,” he shakes his head fondly, eyes brimming with something powerful. “Had the entire seafront to ourselves, you and I.” With enough lead-up to sufficiently warn an entire army of probably-already-deceased witchfinders, Aziraphale lets his hand drift away from Crowley’s jacket, guides it up towards the demon’s pronounced jaw. His fingers settle on either side of Crowley’s chin, and exert just enough force to lift his face. 

It goes without saying, that Crowley resists the guidance at first, but Aziraphale keeps his hold steady and his proximity close, as if to say,  _ I’m here, I’m not leaving.  _

As if to say,  _ You can trust me.  _

Crowley receives the message, louder and clearer than he’d like to admit, and so, with only minimal internal cursing, he raises his eyes to meet Aziraphale’s, deep amber uniting with gentle blue; two opposite forces joining at the horizon, burning magma and clear skies. 

Aziraphale licks his lips- the action doesn’t go unseen. “You’re lovely, Crowley.”

“Yeah well,” Voice gruff, Crowley can feel the strain of uncertainty in his throat. “S’not like I hide ‘em because they don’t match me shoes, or anything  _ human  _ like that. They- They’re not-” He groans, scrubs the back of his hand against his forehead. “They’re just another reminder that- That I’m not like you, Angel. They’re fine, workin’ eyes, but s’not like you need  _ another  _ reminder that you’re- I don’t know. You’re a different kind. Different side and all that.”

A beat of silence passes, balances precariously over their heads like a children’s ball on the nose of a seal, and then Aziraphale is closing the wedge of space between him and Crowley, fitting his arms around Crowley’s neck, tucking his head against his throat. “What is it you’re always saying?” He questions, his speech instructed by the tempo of Crowley’s pulse, which drums steadily against his bottom lip, “We’re our own side, Crowley.”

Demons don’t blush. Crowley isn’t blushing. Nor are his eyes glassy, his bottom lip wobbling, his heart stuttering. No. He’s a demon, a powerful creature reborn under the guise of Hell itself, and such reactions simply do not happen. And if, hypothetically, they  _ could  _ happen to a demon, and if, hypothetically, he  _ actually  _ does display said reactions, he would never admit it, not to a soul. Not even to Aziraphale. Except, he’s already pretty sure that Aziraphale would know, back turned or not.

Hypothetically. 

“Awful, Angel. Just awful. Ghastly. Absolutely  _ harrowing,  _ Using my own hell-sent words against me like that. Whatever am I to do with you?” Crowley asks no one in particular. His words are dry, even though his eyes, perhaps, are not. 

But Aziraphale, he only cranes his neck, stares up at Crowley with a bona fide reverence practically beaming from his eyes like headlights. 

The demon, who’d been keen on prattling only seconds prior, finds himself speechless at the receiving end of the angel’s gaze. It’s intoxicating, hard like whiskey and smooth like white wine, except Crowley knows that, unlike the bloated settle of alcoholic influence, this is a stain of intoxication that he’ll never will away. No, this feeling, this  _ hold  _ on his heart, is one that he’s been sworn to for centuries, already. One he’ll be sworn to for centuries more, if he’s any say in the matter. 

Which is to say that this man, this angel, this  _ lovely being,  _ with eccentric curls and wide eyes, round features and an excruciatingly compassionate heart, is going to be his for a very, very, very long time. Ineffably long, as Aziraphale would put it. 

“I don’t care about- About what you are, Crowley.” Aziraphale testifies, his eyes crinkling,  _ sparkling.  _ “You’re Crowley, erst  _ Crawley- _ ”

“Must you remind me of that  _ damned  _ name every single time you-”

Aziraphale hums, undeniably pleased with himself. Amusement radiates from his skin, a compliment to the passion that blazes behind his eyes. “Always. Crowley,  _ formerly Crawley but Crawley no longer,  _ there isn’t a single being on this plane of existence that I’d rather spend my immortality with. Demon, angel- It’s all politics. All of it.” Aziraphale pauses, a troubled expression clouding over his features. “And I’m sorry I didn’t realize it sooner.” 

Crowley clicks his tongue, gaping at the angel like he's a revelation, “Oh don’t give me that, s’a load of bullshit, c’mon. We were both high on that garbage propaganda, high and dry and  _ awfully self-denied _ .” Rolling his eyes back into his skull, Crowley flattens his palms against Aziraphale’s spine, rubs miniature pentagrams into the tweed of his jacket.

“It’s a good thing you're quite a  _ magnificent  _ specimen when it comes to temptation, hm? Otherwise this might’ve never happened at all.” Aziraphale crowds closer, melts under Crowley’s touch like a circle of candle wax around a burning wick.  

“Or, you know, perhaps you’re just  _ God-awful  _ at being an angel, Angel. I’m utterly _ \-  _ what was the word you used? Magnificent?  _ Utterly magnificent,  _ either way,” He shrugs noncommittally, “But say, if you’re just a shite angel, already privy to my  _ persuasions,  _ then who’s to say that you, being, well,  _ you _ , didn’t just make my job easier?” It’s all suggested with a smirk, one that’s akin to an arachnid creeping along Crowley’s pale cheeks, eventually widening into a full blown Cheshire grin. His teeth, spiked daggers, part to reveal a serpent’s tongue, long and forked. It flicks teasingly across Aziraphale’s nose. 

“What am I  _ ever  _ going to do with you?” Aziraphale laughs, careening his head. His eyes never leave the grasp of Crowley’s golden ones, never so much as lose an ounce of fondness, or burn any less. 

“I think I’ve already asked  _ you  _ that, haven’t I?” Crowley pinches his cheek between his forefinger and middle finger, and Aziraphale finds himself sighing into the contact, smoothing the contour of his cheek to the slender figure of the other’s palm. He kisses the callous skin, gently, slowly, until Crowley shifts his hand away, melds it to the hinge of Aziraphale’s jaw. 

Aziraphale concurs, albeit with a mischievous lilt underlying the edge of his speech, “I suppose.” 

Their lips don’t touch, not entirely, but the tips of their noses brush and the Aziraphale’s fray of curls dances teasingly across Crowley’s forehead. It’s not enough, not for either of them. 

“You’re insufferable,” Crowley rumbles. Aziraphale can feel every syllable on the tip of his tongue, resonating warmly in the pit of his chest, the soles of his feet. 

“And you, my love,” He brings his face closer, presses his mouth resolutely to Crowley’s, “You’re glorious.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> hi!!
> 
> this is my first shot at some good omens stuff, i hope y'all enjoyed :)
> 
> come say hey on Tumblr [@thespideyboy](https://thespideyboy.tumblr.com) !!


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